


Coyote

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Frontier, Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Legends, Marriage of Convenience, Strong Sansa Stark, but there's feelings, myths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: Young and naïve, Sansa dreams of cities and gentle, wealthy men. Older and wiser, Sansa dreams of the open skies of the North and cowboys around campfires.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 79





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song Coyotes by Don Edwards.

As a little girl, Sansa dreams of moving to the big city. Something about the pictures of the towering buildings illuminated by electric lights enthrall her. And the idea of a handsome gentleman in a dapper suit strikes her as romantic.

Then Daddy goes away to fight. He comes back with stories about a giant cowboy of a soldier with scars on his face and the spirit of the warriors of old. Sansa’s dreams change from skyscrapers and city dandies to campfires and cowboys.

* * *

_Was a cowboy I knew in south Texas,_

_His face was burnt deep by the sun,_

_Part history, part sage, part_ _mesquite_

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” Sansa asks Arya softly.

“Sleep is overrated,” Arya scoffs, but Sansa can see the dark circles under her eyes.

Sansa shakes her head. “It’s early yet, and the next town is only a short ride further. Rest. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

Her sister grumbles, but stretches out on her bedroll with no actual argument.

Sansa grabs one of her saddle bags and walks the short distance to the creek they’d camped by and strips, bathing quickly and efficiently. _Gods, I might actually kill for a real bath._ She dries and dresses quickly. Her wide, tan colored twill skirt, white linen blouse, and dark brown leather vest are things she wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing in her younger years, but the thought of corsets, bustles, and silks makes her shudder as she straps her gun belt around her waist. She shakes off the memories of the past as she plaits her hair and settles her dusty, wide-brimmed leather hat over her head.

She packs up camp and saddles their horses quietly and efficiently, then retrieves her journal and goes back to the edge of the creek, dipping her feet in the water.

Arya stirs a couple hours later.

Sansa pulls her feet from the water and slips into her stockings, quickly lacing her boots and returning to her sister.

Arya is blinking suspiciously at the sun. “You let me sleep more than an hour.”

Sansa shrugs unrepentantly. “You needed it. And we really aren’t far from town.”

Arya sneers, but doesn’t actually snap, so Sansa counts it as a win and loads their old pack mule up as her sister bathes and changes.

Arya unearths a few dried apple slices and offers them to her dapple gray mare, Nymeria, before pulling out their battered map. “Think we’re close enough to town to hold off for a decent meal?”

Sansa groans as she offers her own mare, a gentle sunburst paint she calls Lady, a sugar cube. “Gods, I hope so. I can’t eat any more jerky.”

Arya snickers as they mount up and turn back toward the road. They reach the edges of the town - Sansa can’t remember for the life of her what the place is called - as the sun reaches its peak in the sky. They stable the horses with a kindly old man at the edge of town and gratefully accept directions toward the general store and an inn that will be serving a decent midday meal.

The inn is quaint and clean looking, so Sansa has no qualms about making arrangements for a room and baths that night while Arya gets them a table in the dining area. Sansa barely refrains from making truly indecent sounds over the simple fair of roast chicken, corn, and warm bread. Arya doesn’t even bother pretending to refrain.

Arya finishes her meal first, stretching her arms over her head and sighing contentedly. “Supplies or saloon first?”

Sansa glances at the clock on the wall. “Supplies first.”

To their credit, most of the townsfolk don’t look _too_ oddly at the pair of armed women traipsing through their town square. They make quick work of their stop at the general store, and Arya escorts the shop boy hauling their purchases to the stables while Sansa turns toward the town’s sole saloon.

“You’re looking for who?” The bartender asks Sansa incredulously.

Sansa grits her teeth, patience wearing thin. “Sandor Clegane. I heard he had settled in these parts.”

The bartender shakes his head. “What the hell do you want with that old dog?”

Sansa barely keeps the relief from her face. “So he is here?”

“The fuck do you want with that crotchety old bastard?” A new voice asks.

Sansa turns, eyebrow raised haughtily, and takes in the newcomer. Older than her, but younger than her parents, longish brown hair, and a face that’s seen too much sun for too many years, but dressed in well cut leathers. “Who are you?”

“Bronn Blackwater, m’lady. And yourself?”

“You know where I can find Clegane?” Sansa asks in lieu of providing her name.

Bronn shrugs. “Maybe.”

Sansa’s brow goes higher.

Bronn snickers. “He’ll likely be here tonight.”

Sansa dips her chin in acknowledgement. “My thanks.”

Bronn bows, sarcasm bleeding into every line of the motion.

She exits the saloon without further comment.

“Well?” Arya asks as soon as makes it back to their room at the inn.

Sansa nods, the smile she’s been holding back finally breaking free. “He’s here.”

“Fucking finally,” Arya groans.

Sansa’s smile softens. “I know. I’m ready to go home too.”

In celebration of finally finding the elusive soldier, they indulge themselves a bit - they pay for the maids at the inn to do their laundry, and they laze about the rest of the afternoon until it’s time for their baths before dinner.

In the private bathing room downstairs, Sansa groans, feeling positively sinful as she sinks into the fresh, steaming water. She submerges her head until she can’t breathe before she starts cleaning herself in earnest, scrubbing herself from head to toe in the sweet smelling soap they’d picked up at the general store that afternoon. 

She towel dries her hair and works a bit of the lavender and lemon oils she hoards for such occasions as an actual bath into the roots before braiding it back from her temples, letting the rest hang loose down her back, then dressing quickly.

Arya whistles, carelessly braiding her own short hair. 

Sansa winks as she refastens her gun belt.

Arya groans. “Gods, I hope this isn’t the type of town that tries to make us check our guns at the saloon.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Didn’t strike me as the type.”

They have supper at the inn - a hearty beef stew and homemade rolls followed by coffee and a fluffy vanilla cake that Sansa is tempted to kiss the serving girl for.

Arya glances out the window into the twilight. “Too early, you think?”

Sansa shrugs. “Maybe, but what else are we going to do?”

Arya shrugs back. “Right, then.”

It’s not, in fact, too early. The saloon is already nearly full when they push through the doors. Sansa endures the catcalls and crude comments with nothing more than a scowl as they push their way to the bar.

From behind the counter, Bronn grins at her. “Well, don’t you clean up right pretty?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Whiskey. Two.”

Bronn deftly fills three tumblers with generous portions and slides them in front of her. “On the house.”

Sansa raises a brow.

Bronn shrugs. “I'm a curious bastard.” He nods toward the back of the bar.

Sansa’s eyes follow the gesture and her heart stops. The shadowed corner table is occupied by the largest man she’s ever seen. Dark trousers cling to his legs under the table, a dark shirt stretches across his shoulders, and a dark hat shadows his face, but Sansa can still see the scars covering one jawline. He truly is all her childhood imaginings of her father’s stories come to life.

“His bite’s as bad as his bark, girl,” Bronn warns cheerfully.

Sansa steels her spine and winds her way through the crowd, not stopping until she reaches his table. She sets the extra glass of whiskey in front of him. “May I join you?”

He looks up slowly, tan, scarred face and wary gray eyes taking her in from her boots to her face until she can see his whole face under the brim of his hat, and _Oh, I am fucked_.


	2. Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Rickon were never born in this 'verse.

_ And he'd tell you a tale of the old days _

_ When the country was wild all around _

_ Sit out under the stars of the Milky Way _

_ And listen while the coyotes howl _

A glass of whiskey appears on his table, followed by a lilting voice. “May I join you?”

_ Is that a Northern accent? _ Sandor wonders idly as his eyes drift from the floor upward. Wellmade boots peek out from a gray calico skirt and a tooled black leather vest covers a blue blouse that looks suspiciously like silk. Her body language is relaxed, completely at ease with the gun on her hip. His mouth goes dry when he reaches her face. Pale, he’d imagine, under the burn and tan of the sun, with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen framed by hair red as fire.

She tilts her head, clearly still waiting for an answer.

“Do I know you?” He manages to growl.

Then she fucking smiles and he thinks he’d be gone over her that moment if he wasn’t so fucking confused about why she’s standing in front of him in the first place. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, but he has no idea why she’s talking to him - and, more importantly, why she doesn’t seem to be scared of doing so.

“Not yet.” She gestures to the table. “May I?”

Sandor grunts.

The girl sits directly next to him, not across from him, completely at ease, and sips her own whiskey.

Sandor eyes the glass she placed in front of him distrustfully.

She rolls her eyes and takes a drink from his glass, then sets in back in front of him. She doesn’t even grimace at the burn. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Captain Clegane.”

Sandor takes the glass and slams it back. “Who are you?”

“You served with Colonel Eddard Stark.”

Sandor tenses. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Sansa.”

Sandor closes his eyes. “You’re Ned’s daughter.” He glances around the saloon. “Don’t know if this is the place for… whatever this conversation is.”

Sansa smiles softly. “You’re probably right, but you’re a hard man to find.” She takes a sip of her whiskey. “Why didn’t you ever come visit us?”

Sandor starts. “What?”

“Father spoke so highly of you, after the war.”

Sandor hangs his head. It was just like Ned to  _ not _ tell his family about Sandor’s idiocy. 

A drunk stumbles into Sansa’s chair.

Sandor reaches out automatically, rising to his feet as he wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her safely behind him as her chair topples over to the floor and the drunk topples over the chair. Sansa’s hands immediately curl into the back of his shirt.

The drunk scrambles up and tries to lean around Sandor. “S’ry misses,” he slurs, “c’n I-”

“Fuck off,” Sandor growls.

The drunk blinks up, as if just noticing Sandor. “Hey now. I wasn’ talkin’ to you, you ugly cowf-”

Sansa’s grip on his shirt tightens as Sandor’s hand shoots out to the drunk’s collar, cutting him off. He uses the idiot’s collar to drag him through the bar and throw him bodily out the front doors. Sansa is hovering at his back, a short brunette at her elbow, when he turns back. 

From the bar, Bronn scowls at him.

Sandor flips him off and walks out the doors, Sansa following.

In the street, Sandor frowns down at her. “You’re not scared of me.”

Sansa tilts her gaze back. She’s tall, but he still towers over her. “Of course not.”

“I’m not a good man.”

Sansa shrugs. “My father trusted you.”

Sandor scoffs. “Your old man’s lack of self-preservation is hereditary, then.”

The brunette at her elbow grins sharply. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“My sister Arya,” Sansa offers.

_ Gods, these girls are going to get themselves killed. _ “What the hells are you out here in the middle of Texas on your own for?”

Sansa bites her lip and Sandor barely restrains from groaning. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The little inn, just there,” Sansa points.

Sandor shakes his head. “Nothing private about the dining or sitting room there, and no way hell they’ll let me up to your rooms.” He sighs. “I have a house. Outside of town.”

Sansa beams. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Sandor shakes his head, then freezes. “Wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation, Miss Stark.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “First of all, it’s Sansa. Second of all, if I’m not worried about it, why should you be?” She actually fucking winks at him, then. “Besides, Arya will be with us to chaperone.”

Sandor groans. “Gods, girl.”

Sansa giggles. “We’ll have to get our things.”

Arya starts off down the street. “I’ll get our shit from the inn. You take scowly to the stables for the horses.”

Sandor feels a bit helpless and lost, but he’s always been one to roll with the punches, so he pulls Stranger’s reigns from the hitching post and follows Sansa to the stables. He can’t help but be impressed as she deftly saddles a grouchy, dapple gray mare and an overly friendly sunburst paint, then turns and loads down a pack mule, all without breaking a sweat.

“Been on the road a while, then?” He surmises.

Sansa blushes. “It’s a long story.” She leads the horses out one by one, then the mule. Arya reappears, affixing the last of their belongings to the mule, as Sansa settles things with the stable keeper.

None of them pay any mind to the stares they garner as they ride out of town. They ride in silence, which Sandor is grateful for. For the life of him, Sandor cannot imagine why Ned’s girls would seek him out for anything. Not after their last encounter.

_ As he approaches the gates, Sandor decides that Ned’s description of his home didn’t do it justice. The sprawling stone estate reminds Sandor of the keeps of old, but something about the place just emanates warmth and a sense of  _ home _. Sandor can’t help but smile when Ned meets him in the courtyard. _

_ The older man smiles and pulls him into an embrace as soon as he’s off his horse. “I wasn’t sure if you would come, my friend.” _

_ Sandor shrugs. “I went to California. Then got a job offer in New York. Montana’s not so terribly far out of the way.” _

_ “New York?” Ned frowns. “The city is no place for you, my friend.” _

_ Sandor shrugs. “Good money.” _

_ “I had hoped you would stay on with us,” Ned admits quietly. _

_ “Not a fucking charity case Stark.” _

_ Ned shakes his head. “No, my friend! Never. I-” _

_ “Forget it,” Sandor cuts him off. _

_ Ned takes a slow breath. “Very well. Even if it’s for a short time, I’m glad you’re here. Tell me about this job.” _

_ Sandor shrugs. “Tywin Lannister off-” _

_ “Lannister?!” Ned’s eyes go wide. “Are you insane? Sandor, do you know what kind of work former soldiers who are employed by the Lannister’s do?” _

_ Sandor scowls. “The fuck else am I supposed to do?” _

_ “Stay,” Ned practically begs. “You don’t need that, Sandor. My friend, please. I-” _

_ Sandor shakes his head and holds a hand up. “I’m going.” _

_ Ned sighs, defeat in every line of his body. “I wish you wouldn’t, my friend, but if your mind is made up…” _

_ Sandor nods. _

_ Ned’s expression resolves firmly. “Very well. I can’t allow that in my home, old friend. Not around my family. Not around my children.” _

_ Sandor’s heart sinks, and in the depth of it, he understands, but anger has always been his shield. “I’ll just be out of your fucking hair then,  _ friend _.” _

_ He remounts his horse and turns back toward the gates. _

_ “Sandor!” Ned calls after him. _

_ Sandor pulls his horse to a halt, but doesn’t turn. _

_ “If you ever leave them, and need somewhere to turn… there will always be a place for you here.” _

_ Sandor doesn’t answer, and doesn’t turn back. By the time he actually leaves the Lannister’s employ so many years and so many horrid deeds later, he’s too ashamed to even think of turning to his old friend. So, though his heart longs to turn north, he travels south. _

Sandor’s property is simple - a solid adobe structure where he sleeps and a sturdy barn. They settle the horses and the mule in the barn in comfortable silence before turning to the house. Sandor carefully lights a few oil lamps while Sansa and Arya settle at his simple wooden table. 

“Well?” Sandor prompts when he finally joins them.

Sansa takes a deep breath. “We need your help, Captain.”

“Sandor,” he corrects, almost gently.

“Sandor,” Sansa smiles around his name. “We need your help.”

“The fuck do you need some jaded old soldier for?”

“Because while we can take care of ourselves,” Sansa offers, “we are hardly equipped to take on the men that stole our home.”

“What?” Sandor straightens.

Arya snorts. “Start at the beginning.”

Sansa sighs. “Right… it’s… gods, I don’t know where the beginning really is.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Right. Okay, so, here’s the short version: Father took Mother on a holiday to the coast. They went out on a boat and…” Arya’s voice catches.

“They got caught in a storm,” Sansa says softly. “They didn’t come back.”

Arya nods. “Right. That. And that left Robb in charge. He arranged a marriage for Sansa - some rich fucking prick in New York.” She sneers at the tabletop. “Fucking Lannister cunt.”

Sandor looks up sharply.

“I went along to chaperone,” Arya continues, either not noticing or ignoring his reaction. “And then we realized he was abusive, and his whole family was made up of assholes. We were making plans to get away when we received a telegram that Robb had been killed and Winterfell had been taken by a gang of outlaws.”

Sansa's eyes fill with tears. “We must avenge our older brother, and we must take our home back. But we cannot do it alone.” She smiles sadly. “And Father used to tell such stories of you…”

Sandor pushes back from the table and storms out of the house. He ends up behind the barn, throwing boulders and screaming. He doesn’t notice he’s not alone until he collapses to the ground, unable to lift his arms and longer, and unable to hold back the tears. He smells her first - lavender and lemon, that he’d first gotten a whiff of with her pressed up against his back in the saloon - then feels her warmth in front of him.

He lifts his head wearily.

Sansa simply drops to her knees and wraps her arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to her shoulder.

Sandor doesn’t have the strength to do anything but cry.

Sansa hums softly and strokes his hair.

“We fought,” he mumbles into her neck when he feels like he can breathe again.

“What’s that?” Sansa asks.

Sandor reluctantly pulls back from her, forces himself to face her. “You asked why I never came to visit. I did. Your father and I argued as soon as I arrived. I was taking a job working for the Lannisters and he begged me not to, asked me to stay at Winterfell instead. I left again that very same night. And then, after everything I did for the Lannisters… I was too ashamed to come back. And now… fuck. That fight… your father might be the only true friend I’ve ever had, Miss Stark, and the last thing I ever said to him basically equated to fuck off.”

“Sansa.”

“What?”

“Call me Sansa.”

Sandor nods, bewildered.

“He never told us you fought,” Sansa tells him softly. “And he always hoped you would come to us someday. He told us the most wonderful stories about you.”

Sandor shakes his head. “He saw more good in me than there ever was.”

Sansa tilts her head. “I don’t know about that. I think I understand what he saw.”

Sandor scoffs. “Don’t try to make some knight in shining armor out of me, girl.”

Sansa shakes her head, eyes shining bemusedly. “No. I much prefer cowboys with a sharp tongue and sharper shot.”

“What do you want from me, girl?”

“I already told you,” Sansa smiles. “I want my home back. And I want you to help me get it.”


	3. Arya

_Well he cursed all the roads and the oilmen_

_And he cursed the automobile_

_Said, "This is no place for an hombre like I am_

_In this new world of asphalt and steel.”_

Sandor, Arya decides, is entertaining. He doesn’t like trains. He despises the idea of automobiles. He hates big cities and their towering buildings.

“The fuck did you go to New York for if you hate the city so much?” Arya finally asks him, a few days into traveling together.

Sandor shrugs. “My brother was a right cunt. Fucking hated him, but I was always compared to him. He worked for the Lannisters. I figured that if I did too, maybe I could finally prove I was better than him.”

Arya nods slowly, eyes on Sansa where she rides ahead of them. “San and I used to hate each other, you know.”

Sandor raises his good brow.

“She was always the perfect lady. Our mother always asked why I couldn’t be more like Sansa.”

“What changed?”

Arya smiles. “Some boy from whatever counts as a big city in Montana came. Wanted to step out with Sansa. She wasn’t interested and he didn’t want to take no for an answer. I knocked him flat on his ass and our cousin Jon sent him packing. Jon had been teaching me to fight for years. Sword, pistol, rifle, fists… whatever it was, he made sure I could do it. Sansa joined us after that. And then we went to New York…”

“Experiences bind people.”

Arya nods.

“You never had an opportunity like that with your brother?” Sansa asks, falling back next to them.

Sandor shakes his head. “My brother was evil.” He takes a deep breath and gestures to his face. “He did this to me. Long before I was a soldier.”

Sansa frowns deeply.

“He dead?” Arya asks savagely.

Sandor nods. “Fell off the roof of one those damn skyscrapers.”

Arya snorts.

“He deserved worse,” Sansa says vehemently.

Arya nods and falls back, letting Sansa and Sandor ride beside one another. If his grumpiness is entertaining, his level of besottedness with Sansa is downright captivating. More often than not, Arya feels as if she can’t look away.

Every time Sansa smiles, Sandor looks dazed. Every time she touches him - Sansa is tactile, with those she trusts, and she trusts Sandor - Arya half expects him to melt into a puddle. He’s gruff and mean and coarse, but his edges soften for Sansa. For all he claims not to believe in the gods, he looks at Sansa as if she is the Maiden herself.

Sansa is no better. Arya was annoyed by her sister as children, when Sansa wanted to move to New York and be treated like some kind of princess, but Sansa has grown into a woman. And as a woman, Sansa doesn’t get stars in her eyes when she sees most men - Harry’s presumptuous dick and Joffrey’s abusive ass put an end to that - but since their father came back from the war with tales of a ferocious soldier everyone called Hound, Sansa has always had a soft spot for cowboys. Arya is fairly certain her sister was half in love with Sandor Clegane before she ever laid eyes on the man. Arya’s just glad he’s living up to his reputation.

Arya shakes off her thoughts and turns her attention to the sky. “We should make camp. Looks like a storm’s rolling in and we don’t have time to make it to the next town before it’ll hit.”

*

Arya rides ahead to scout the next town, and comes back scowling.

“What?” Sansa demands.

“Fucking… they’re uptight. Very uptight.”

“As in…”

Arya sighs. “As in, two women traveling alone with a man is likely to get us lynched.”

Sansa flinches. “Shit.”

Arya nods. “I watched them check someone’s family Bible and demand a marriage certificate for authenticity. And that was just someone coming through on the stage. We’ll have to be here at least a couple of days to get the horses shoed and restock on supplies.”

“We can double back and stock up at the last town,” Sandor offers.

Arya meets his eyes, knowing damn well that he knows that won’t work.

“Fucking… okay, I know, Runt. Too small. Didn’t have what we needed, but what else can we do?”

“There are other routes. But this is the fastest. We have to take it if we want to make it through Colorado before the snows hit.”

Sansa nods. “At the very least, on this route we’ll make it to the Vale in time even if the snows come early.”

Arya grimaces. “I have an idea. But I don’t think either of you will like it.” 

“Will whatever it is work?” Sansa asks.

Arya nods. “Without a doubt.”

Sandor eyes her warily.

“We’ll do it.” Sansa says. “If it will work, we’ll do it.”

“You don’t even know what it is,” Sandor challenges.

“I trust Arya,” Sansa argues. “Don’t you?”

“To keep us alive, aye.” Sandor nods. “ _And_ to fuck with us while she’s doing it.”

Arya groans. “Do you want to hear my idea or not?”

“Yes,” Sansa assures, shooting a look at Sandor that makes him snap his mouth shut.

Arya takes a deep breath. “We _will_ have to double back to the next town. For a septon or a maester.”

Sandor’s jaw drops. “You think I should marry one of you.”


	4. Sansa

_Then he'd look off someplace in the distance_

_At something only he could see_

_He'd say, "All that's left now of the old days:_

_Those damned, old coyotes and me."_

Sansa can’t decide if she should laugh, cry, throw something at her sister, run away, or some combination of any of those. What she can’t do, though is look at Sandor.

“You think I should marry one of you,” Sandor says incredulously.

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, and her voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Arya is already married.”

“Why should we have to get married if you already are, Runt?”

“Because her husband isn’t with us,” Sansa whispers. “Who would believe us?”

A heavy silence falls.

Arya whistles. “Right. Well, I’ll just be over… not here for a minute. Let you two talk.”

Sansa finally looks up at Sandor. “You don’t have to. This… gods, this is not what I meant when I asked you to help us retake Winterfell.”

Sandor stares out over the open road in front of them. “ _I_ don’t have to? Fucking hells, Sansa, what about you? You’re young, gorgeous, intelligent… you could have anyone and anything you want. You shouldn’t be saddled with some grumpy old dog like me, even if it is only for show.”

Sansa flinches before she can stop herself, and is viscerally grateful that Sandor isn’t looking at her. “Anything I want?” Sansa asks softly.

“Aye,” Sandor answers, just as softly.

Sansa maneuvers Lady in front of Stranger, then turns her around and stops alongside the giant black destrier, reaching out and cupping Sandor’s cheek so he has to look at her. “I want my home back. I want what’s left of my family to be together and safe. Whether you ever reconciled with my father or not, he cared for you deeply, so that includes you. I can’t and won’t force you to marry me, Sandor. But having you by my side will be no trial.”

“That sounds like more than a marriage for show,” Sandor rasps, voice pitched low.

Sansa shrugs and blushes. “I’m afraid you rather ruined me for other men even before I met you, Sandor Clegane.”

Sandor’s eyes drift closed. “What the hells do you want with a scarred old soldier?”

Sansa brushes her thumb over his cheek. “Look at me.”

Sandor opens his eyes obediently.

“Why did you come with us?”

“I couldn’t say no.”

“Because of my father?”

“Because of you,” Sandor answers, pain and honesty both shining in his eyes.

Sansa smiles softly. “I swear to the gods my heart stopped when I first saw you, Sandor.”

“I’m not a good man.”

“Will you ever hurt me?”

“Never,” Sandor swears vehemently.

“Then I don’t care. Not good does not mean bad. The world needs more men who are willing to do hard things. So, Sandor Clegane, will you marry me?”

Sandor groans, and before Sansa quite processes what he’s doing he hauls her out of her own saddle and across his lap. He cups his hand around the back of her neck and lowers his forehead to hers, knocking both their hats off their heads. “Aye, Sansa, I’ll marry you.”

Sansa beams up at him, happy tears welling in her eyes, then closes the scant distance between them and presses her lips to his.

“I take it that means we’re turning back for the septon, then?” Arya’s voice interrupts.

“Maester,” Sandor says. “I’m not stepping foot in any fucking sept.”

They ride hard back to the last town, marry the day they arrive, and are riding back out before the ink on their marriage certificate is dry.

“Should I make myself scarce?” Arya asks with a smirk when they make camp that night.

“Arya!” Sansa protests, cheeks flaming.

“I’m not going to take your sister for the first time in the dirt like a dog in heat, Runt,” Sandor snaps.

Sansa feels her eyes go wide. “For the first time?”

Arya cackles. “Gods, you two are a mess. When I caught you swapping spit on his horse, I figured you’d managed to get on the same page about this whole marriage thing.”

“Runt,” Sandor growls.

Arya rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna go gather firewood.”

As soon as she’s out of sight, Sandor backs Sansa against the nearest tree, then picks her up by the waist, forcing her to wrap her legs around him as he claims her mouth with his own.

Sansa is gasping for air when he finally pulls back.

Sandor, breathless himself, gently brushes her hair away from her face. “Your sister’s not wrong, Sansa. I thought we were on the same page.” He waves between them. “This is real.”

Sansa nods. “Yes.”

Sandor kisses her again, once, almost roughly. “ _Every_ part of it.”

Sansa whimpers. “Yes.”

His arms tighten around her waist. “I want you,” he brushes a kiss over her jaw, “every inch of you,” another kiss just under her ear, “but we’re going to do that part right,” he promises, biting lightly at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Sansa shudders against him. “Okay.”

Sandor raises his head and kisses her again.

Sansa can tell he’s surprised when she lays their bed rolls out together. “Just because we aren’t going to lie together as husband and wife yet doesn’t mean you can’t hold me,” she tells him primly.

Sandor just chuckles and pulls her into the curve of his body. Sansa’s not even remotely surprised to find she fits against him perfectly.

She feels Arya’s gaze across the fire and turns her head to meet her sister’s eyes. Arya smiles, as softly as she ever does. Then she groans and rolls away. “Fuck, I miss Gendry.”

*

Less than a week after they rode away from the outskirts, they’re riding back into the town that had delayed them. They take the mule and their horses to a farrier who promises to see to them overnight then make their way toward a clean-looking inn they’d passed on their way in.

“Don’t see many women folk carryin’ guns in these parts,” the innkeeper observes as they’re booking their rooms.

“I won’t have my wife or goodsister defenseless,” Sandor says, tone brooking no argument.

The innkeeper shrugs. “To each their own. Your rooms are on the very top floor. Only two rooms up there. Supper is served in about half an hour.”

Sandor nods and takes the keys, then herds Sansa and Arya up the stairs. They settle their things and use the wash basins to clean up before making their way back down. Supper is a subdued affair, interrupted only by many glances their way.

“You don’t get many visitors through this town, do you?” Sansa asks the serving girl as she sets plates of roast chicken, potatoes and cornbread in front of them.

The girl shakes her head. “No, miss. And,” she glances around then ducks her head, “I think your husband scares most of them.”

Sansa laughs softly. “Well, we’re not here to be a nuisance. Just resupplying.”

“Where are you heading then, miss?”

“To relatives in the Vale,” Sansa answers honestly.

“Colorado territory?”

Sansa nods. “And then north.”

The girl pales. “You don’t want to go north, miss. They say that land is cursed.”

Arya grins sharply. “Only to those who are not meant to be there. The North is in our blood.”

The serving girl scampers away.

Sandor snorts. “Now everyone’s gonna be scared shitless of all of us.”

Arya shrugs. “Oh well. That means they won’t bother us.”

After dinner, they make use of the bathing rooms on the main floor, then retire to their rooms.

“I’ve got cotton for my ears, but remember there’s people below you.” Arya snarks as she disappears into her room.

Sansa blushes furiously.

Sandor closes their door behind them and gently brushes her loose hair away from her face. “If you’re not ready, Sansa…”

Sansa shakes her head. “Can we just… talk, for a minute?”

Sandor guides her onto the bed, then stretches out beside her, one arm tucked snugly around her and the other bent under his head. “What’d that girl mean, about the North being cursed?”

Sansa snickers. “You mean you served with my father and never heard the legends of the North?”

“What, that whole thing about ice people and shapeshifters?”

Sansa nods against his chest. “The ice people were real. A very, very long time ago. Those texts are very closely guarded, so no one ever tries to wake them again.”

“Hmm,” Sandor hums. “And the shapeshifters?”

Sansa shrugs. “Very little literature. Oral tradition, mostly songs.”

“Songs? Are you going to sing for me, Sansa?”

Sansa rises up on her elbow to look down at him. “Would you like me to?”

Sandor nods.

Sansa smiles and sits up, then opens her mouth. Some of the songs, the legends, she sings, are English, but more are not - some are in the languages native to the peoples of these lands, and others are something else - similar to Gaelic, Sansa thinks, but older.

Sandor watches her face and listens, entranced, as she sings song after song.

She smiles nervously when she finally trails off. “Well?”

He pulls her down to him and kisses her softly. “Beautiful,” he kisses her again, “but now I think I’ll have a different kind of song.”

Sansa wakes, nude but pleasantly warm, tucked into her husband’s side. She’s sore, but no more than after a day of hard riding. She snickers to herself at the unintended innuendo of her thoughts and her body hums in remembered pleasure.

“Awake, then, Little Bird?”

She snuggles further into him. “‘Little Bird’?”

“Aye. Prettiest little song bird I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing.”

Sansa smiles against his side.


	5. Sandor

_One morning, they searched his adobe_

_He disappeared without even a word_

_But that night, as the moon crossed the mountain_

_One more coyote was heard_

It’s pure luck that Arya overhears their serving girl from that first night talking with one of the stable boys about the “strange visitors” but they’re out of town within the hour, and Sandor doesn’t breathe easily until well past midday.

There are still weeks of riding between them and the Vale, and they fall in a routine in a comfortable way they hadn’t quite managed before. They rise with the dawn and ride until midday, when they stop to rest the horses and eat, then ride again until near dusk and make camp. Sansa sets up camp while Arya gathers firewood and fishes and Sandor hunts. Around their campfire they’ll share a bottle of whiskey while Sansa sings or Arya and Sandor take turns telling stories. He finds himself amazed at the strength of these girls - women - for surviving all they’re been through. Every night, Sansa tucks herself into Sandor’s side, and drifts off to sleep with her head over his heart. Sandor’s nightmares haven’t found him a single night that he’s had her in his arms.

A man is waiting for them in the last town they reach before the Vale. He’s almost as tall as Sandor, even more broad, with eyes as blue as Sansa’s, only darker. Sandor almost falls off his horse when Arya actually squeals and throws herself off her horse and directly into the man’s arms.

“Gendry?” Sandor asks.

Sansa smiles and nods.

Sandor shrugs and dismounts, then turns and hands Sansa down.

Sansa approaches Gendry, leaning around her sister and going up on her toes to kiss the other man on the cheek. “Gods, am I glad to see you!”

Gendry grins. “Has she been that insufferable?”

“Yes,” Sansa answers, deftly dodging her sister’s blind swing in her direction.

Gendry nods over Sansa’s shoulder. “You found him then?”

Sansa nods. “Gendry, this is Sandor. Sandor, Gendry.”

Sandor, holding Lady’s and Stranger’s reins, nods in greeting.

Gendry, with his arms still full of Arya, nods back.

Suddenly, Arya pulls back and drops to the ground. “Did you bring them?”

Gendry puts his hands on his hips. “Is that all I’m good for, love?”

Arya’s eyes glint mischievously. “No, you’re also good for-”

One of Gendry’s hands shoots out and covers her mouth. “Don’t finish that. Yes, I brought them. They’re at the inn.”

Gendry leads them to a large inn near the center of town and helps them stable the horses before leading them up to the suite he’s already arranged. Sandor’s fairly certain it’s the nicest place he’s ever stayed - two bedrooms and a private bath with a sitting area connecting them. Two long, wooden boxes lay on the low table in the middle of the room.

Arya darts toward them, but Gendry easily catches her around the waist. “Patience, woman!”

“I’ve been waiting _months_ ,” Arya protests.

Gendry turns her in his arms as easily as most people would turn a doll. “And I’ve been waiting months for a proper kiss.”

Arya huffs and rolls her eyes, but leans in obligingly.

Sandor wraps an arm around Sansa’s shoulders and tugs her back against his chest. “She’s almost soft around him, eh?”

Sansa leans into him and giggles. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

Sansa smiles. “Swords.”

Sandor blinks. “What?”

Sansa grins. “You remember when Arya told you our cousin Jon taught us how to fight?”

Sandor frowns thoughtfully. “She said swords.”

Sansa nods. “My father… he had an old Valyrian steel sword.”

“ _Ice_ ,” Sandor remembers.

“It was too unwieldy for me or Arya,” she nods toward her goodbrother, “but Gendry is a brilliant blacksmith.”

“You had him rework it.”

Sansa nods. “It’s why he stayed in New York when we went searching for you.”

Arya finally breaks away from Gendry and pouts. “ _Now_ can I have my sword?”

Gendry rolls his eyes, but sets her on her feet and bows. “M’lady.”

Arya scowls at him, but darts toward the boxes.

Gendry follows, slapping her hands away when she reaches for the larger box. “That’s for your sister.”

Arya’s scowl deepens, but she opens the smaller box and pulls out a beautifully made rapier. She actually _coos_ over it.

Gendry nudges the other box toward Sansa.

Sandor releases her and gently shoves her forward.

The longsword she pulls is perfectly balanced in her hand, and the blade gleams in the lamplight. Then she swings it in a perfect arc through the air, then spins and thrusts the blade, away from her family, in perfect form.

Sandor groans.

Sansa, sword still held steadily in front of her, turns her face toward him with a raised brow.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Little Bird.”

Sansa lowers the blade with a deliberate, complicated twirl as she turns bodily toward Sandor with a sharp grin. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr. Clegane.”

Sandor smiles down at her, and the soft expression still feels foreign on his face. “And why is that, Mrs. Clegane?”

Sansa sheathes the sword and steps into his space, resting her free hand on his chest and tilting her face back toward him. “Because you promised me until the end of days, and I don’t plan on the end of my days being any time soon.”

Sandor reaches down and cups her elbows gently, thumbs caressing the sides of her arms. “I didn't say you were going to be the death of me any time soon.”

Sansa snorts. “Cheeky.”

Gendry clears his throat. “Um, sorry, did he just call her Mrs. Clegane?”

Arya snickers. “Yup. She married the crotchety bastard.”


	6. Arya

_Now the longhorns are gone_

_And the drovers are gone_

_And the outlaws are gone_

“Gods, I hate this place,” Arya shudders, looking up at the fortress her aunt’s late husband built. “It always makes me feel trapped.”

Sandor jerks his chin toward the guarded entrance. “That the only way in and out?”

Arya nods. “The only sane way out.”

“There’s cells on the far side,” Sansa explains. “They’re open to the elements. The cliff face is too sheer to scale.”

“And the fucking moon door,” Arya shakes her head. “Right in the middle of the main room in the house. A giant fucking hole in the floor.”

“Let’s keep this visit short, yeah?” Gendry suggests.

“Identify yourselves!” The nearest guard calls.

Sansa steps to the front of theri little party. “My name is Sansa Stark. Lysa Arryn is my mother’s sister.”

“It’s Lysa Baelish now,” a smooth voice comes from the shadow of the entry gate.

Sansa tenses. “Petyr?”

“You're keeping interesting company these days, sweetling.”

“Could’ve died happy without seein’ your mug again,” Sandor snarls.

Sansa lays a gentle hand on his arm. “Peace, Sandor.”

Petyr tilts his head curiously. “You liked pretty things when I knew you, sweetling, and now you stoop to touch a dog.”

Arya thinks she's the only one who sees Sansa’s hand twitch toward her gun.

“I would thank you to keep a civil tongue about my husband,” Sansa says, eyes colder than the northern winds.

Petyr’s face slips enough that he briefly shows a hint of surprise, then he tsks. “You could do so much better.”

“I suggest a change in topic before I lose my temper,” Sansa bites out.

Petyr inclines his chin.”Of course. Where is my hospitality? Do come in, please.”

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Arya mutters to Sandor.

Her goodbrother nods tightly.

*

“You look so much like your mother,” Petyr sighs over dinner, for no less than the fifth time since their arrival. As an apparent afterthought, he reaches for Lysa’s hand. “Doesn’t she, darling?”

“The spitting image,” Lysa smiles tightly. “Not that it isn’t lovely to see you girls, but… no word before and it’s been so long…”

Arya rolls her eyes. “I know it’s willful ignorance, Auntie, but surely even you can’t be so ignorant as to be unaware of your family’s misfortunes.”

Lysa’s lips press into a thin line..

Petyr’s jaw drops. “You can’t be serious.”

“What, dearest?” Lysa simpers.

Petyr shakes his head. “They mean to take Winterfell back from the Bolton gang.”

Lysa’s eyes widen. “That’s madness!”

“It’s suicide,” Petyr corrects. “And if you’ve come to ask for men-”

Arya cuts him off with a scoff. “Hardly. We don’t need men.”

“Just the four of you are going to take Winterfell, then?”

“That’s our business.”

“Arya,” Sansa placates. She turns to Petyr with the kind of diplomatic smile that Arya has never managed - or wanted - to master. “We just need a day or two of rest, and some supplies if you can manage. It’s still a long ride to Winterfell, and we aim to arrive before the worst of the winter snows.”

“Those can’t even be a month out!” Lysa protests.

“Not quite,” Sansa agrees.

“Winter with us, sweetling,” Petyr offers.

Sandor glowers.

Sansa, with no subtlety whatsoever, scoots her chair closer to her husband and leans into his side. “All due respect, _Uncle_ Petyr, we are ready to be home.”

Arya snickers into her elbow at the obvious emphasis on _uncle_.

Lysa bristles. “Madness! This is all madness! Whoever heard of such things?! Young ladies wearing breeches and carrying guns and swords! Highborn ladies marrying blacksmiths and-and-and mercenaries! You think two girls and two lowborn degenerates can retake the fortress your father built Winterfell into from a gang of notoriously vicious outlaws?! You’re-”

Petyr lays a steadying hand on her shoulder and leans forward to whisper in her ear. Her breathing slowly evens out and the color in her cheeks lessens. Lysa exhales shakily.

“Fuck that highborn and lowborn bullshit,” Arya snarls.

Lysa gasps, clearly scandalized

Arya shrugs unrepentantly. “This is the Frontier. Not the old country.”

“Forgive her,” Petyr smiles widely - a smarmy expression, in Arya’s opinion - and pats Lysa’s shoulder. “She gets excitable.”

“That is the last slight I will hear against my husband,” Sansa warns coldly.

Petyr nods agreeably. “Of course. We’ll offer you rooms as long as we can convince you to stay. And supply you with anything else you may need.”

“Petyr!” Lysa protests.

Petyr pats her shoulder again. “If they succeed, dearest, it would behoove us to have allies, to have family, in the North again.”

Lysa sniffs disdainfully, but doesn’t argue.


	7. Sansa

_ And the red wolf is gone _

They only stay in the Eerie for two days, and Sandor doesn’t once let Sansa out of arm's reach. They’re back on the road north with the dawn of the third day, well rested and well supplied.

“Let’s never do that again,” Arya groans as soon as they’re out of earshot of the gate.

“Agreed,” Sansa shudders. “Gods, I’d forgotten what a creep Baelish is.”

“I’d have cut his throat if he’d touched you,” Arya offers.

“How in the hells do you know Baelish?” Sandor asks.

Sansa shrugs. “He had some sort of business with the Lannisters when I was with them. I don’t know what kind. I was always kept away from meetings, then paraded out for dinner. Having me around made him more agreeable.”

Arya grimaces.

Sandor scowls.

“It’s in the past,” Sansa gestures dismissively. “We need to worry about now.”

*

They camp in the woods outside the Bolton gangs lackluster patrol radius, while Arya sneaks in closer.

“Only a handful of them stay sober every night,” Arya reports back two days later.

“So we attack at night.”

Arya nods.

“They still have superior numbers,” Gendry points out.

Sansa and Arya exchange glances.

Sansa nods. “We know. It won’t be a problem.”

Sandor tilts his head toward her curiously. “What aren’t you telling us, Little Bird?”

Sansa bites her lip nervously. “Do you trust me?”

Sandor doesn’t hesitate to nod. “You know I do”

Sansa smiles at him and leans into his space, kissing him briefly.

“Tonight, then?” Gendry asks.

Arya shakes her head. “Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow’s a full moon,” Sandor points out. “There’ll be more light.”

Gendry frowns. “Isn’t that an advantage?”

“Aye,” Sandor agrees. “But it’ll be an advantage for them too.”

Arya smirks. “More of one for us.”

Sansa nods. “We’ll rest now. Attack tomorrow night.”

Before anyone can protest, she starts singing in a low tone, another old ballad from the Far North about magic and shapeshifters, and takes the first watch as everyone else drifts off to sleep.

*

The moon is high in the sky, and Sansa feels as if she’s going to vibrate out of her skin, but she keeps her hand steady on her gun. She turns and raises a brow when she feels Sandor’s eyes on her.

Sandor grins unrepentantly. “Your ass in trousers is a sight to behold, my love.”

Sansa bites her lip to hold back her laughter. “Focus, Clegane.”

Sandor inclines his head. “Kiss for luck?”

Sansa reels him in by his shirtfront, kissing him long and deep. “Don’t die.”

She sprints away before he can respond. When the moon reaches its peak, she scales the northern wall of her family estate. She draws her sword as she reaches the top. The guard standing there drops his jaw in surprise, and Sansa swings her sword, cleanly separating his head from his shoulders before he can raise the alarm. A normal woman, even one as tall as her, should not have the strength to wield a longsword as she does. She sends a silent prayer of thanks to the gods that she is not a normal woman.

She creeps along the ramparts, mercilessly swinging her sword through every guard she finds. Once she’s made a full circuit of the ramparts, she takes the stairs down to the main gate, but only manages to behead one of the two men standing there before the other one shouts. Sansa snarls and thrusts her sword through his throat, then draws her pistol as more men emerge from the various buildings inside the walls.

Sansa fires off a shot, then spins and kicks the lever on the mechanism to open the gate, letting her companions through. Arya blurs past her, pistol in one hand and rapier in the other. Where Sansa has strength, Arya is all speed. Sandor and Gendry both come through, guns blazing, right behind her.

Sansa ignores the burn of a bullet lodging in one of her ribs and another grazing her shoulder, pushing herself harder and faster until she sees Roose and Ramsay Bolton finally emerge. 

Her gums itch, and across the courtyard, she sees Arya’s eyes flash. The sisters exchange a brief glance and even quicker nods. Sansa sheathes her sword and unbuckles her belt, sliding it across the cobblestones to rest safely under a wagon.

“What the hells are you doing?” Sandor shouts, panic sharpening his tone.

Sansa winks at him, then runs straight toward the Boltons, launching off a stray crate and shifting mid-air, hearing cloth rip as her clothes shred and deep red fur ripples across her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Arya shift as well, sleek and dark, barreling Roose’s legs right out from under him. In two bounds, Sansa lands on Ramsay’s chest, ignoring the bullet that catches one of her hind legs in the process. The silver knife he jabs between her ribs, however, is harder to ignore. 

She snarls and twists, snapping his wrist between her jaws. It has the unfortunate side-effect of leaving the knife buried in her side. But it also makes Ramsay scream.

A moment later, she feels a hand at her neck. Sandor’s scent reaches her before she can turn and snap.

He tightens his hand in her fur. “Guess they’re not just old songs and stories, then, are they, Little Bird?”

Sansa leans into his side.

Her husband rests his arm over her shoulders, just about even with his chest. “How in the hells does a beast this big live in something as skinny as you, love?”

Sansa chuffs in amusement.

Ramsay shimmies under her, and she snaps her jaws, barely a hair's breadth from his nose, in warning. Wisely, he stills. 

“You look like you want to rip his throat out,” Sandor observes casually. 

Sansa growls, low in her throat.

“Hanging him would make a better example without drawing undue attention to you and your sister.”

Sansa huffs, but steps off Ramsay’s chest and lets Sandor haul him up and pin him to the nearest wall by the throat. Sansa glances over to see Roose in a similar position under Gendry’s hand, Arya already back in human skin at her husband’s shoulder. Sansa takes a deep breath and shifts, using Sandor’s arm to steady herself back on two feet.

She grimaces as she pulls the silver blade from her side. “Fuck.”

Sandor glances at her worriedly.

She waves him off. “I’ll be fine, love. Silver only hurts if it’s stabbed or shot into me. It’ll heal.”

Ramsay’s eyes glitter, and Sansa honestly can’t tell if it’s due to her nude form, or the bloody blade in her hand.

Sansa rolls her eyes and reaches forward, grabbing a handful of Ramsay’s hair and slamming his head back into the stone wall hard enough for him to slump into unconsciousness. Sandor lets him drop to the ground in a heap and shrugs out of his jacket, resting it over Sansa’s shoulders. She slides her arms into it gratefully.

Sandor reaches out to button it up, but stops with a frown. “Gods, Little Bird, how many fucking times did you get hit?”

Sansa reaches up and pats his cheek. “Three, I think.”

“You think?” Sandor snarls.

Sansa frowns. “Well, four if you count this bastard,” she kicks Ramsay none-to-gently in the ribs, “stabbing me. But one of the gunshot wounds was just a graze.”

Sandor pales. “Gods, Little Bird.”

Sansa waves him off. “I’m fine.”

“Show me,” Sandor commands.

Sansa rolls her eyes, but shrugs his jacket off and hands it back to him. “Bullet here,” she indicates a wound high on her left side. “I can feel it lodged in my rib. Graze here,” she points to her right arm. “Bullet hole here,” she points to the outer part of her right thigh, “that I’m pretty sure went through and through.” Finally, her hand comes to rest over the stab wound on her right side, between two of her lower ribs and still bleeding a bit more profusely than the other wounds. “And the damn silver knife here.”

They strip the Bolton’s to their unders and dump them in separate heavy iron cells, then split into pairs and search the rest of the estate for any stragglers. When they find no one, Sansa finally allows Sandor to gently bully her through a bath and lets him bandage up her injuries.

“I’d still rather stitch ‘em,” Sandor mumbles.

Sansa smiles softly. “They’ll heal faster if you don’t.”

“Shifter thing?”

Sansa nods tiredly.

Sandor brushes away a stray hair that’s already escaped from her braid. “You should rest.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“When?”

“It’s almost first light. We’ll hang the Boltons at dawn and build pyres for the rest.”

“Then you’ll rest?”

Sansa nods. “Then  _ we’ll _ rest.”

“Roose and Ramsay Bolton,” Sansa addresses them, loud and clear, in the early morning light, “do you have any last words?”

Roose keeps his mouth shut and his expression stoic.

Ramsay grins, madness shining in his eyes. “Not gonna tell us what we’re being hanged for?”

Sansa narrows her eyes and whistles sharply. Lady and Stranger trot toward her obediently, letting the men on their backs drop heavily.

Sandor chuckles. “Don’t owe them any explanations?”

“Exactly,” Sansa confirms. “Leave their bodies, leave the ashes of the pyres, and leave the front gates open. I will have the people of the North that the Starks are back in Winterfell.”


	8. Epilogue - Sansa

_ And the lion is gone _

Six months later, Winterfell has amassed an odd collection of people. The family in residence - Sansa and Sandor, Arya and Gendry - are strange enough on their own. The rest are most kindly described as eclectic.

* * *

Tormund and Ygritte, natives of the Far North, drag a half dead Jon home a month after they retake Winterfell.

Jon, bearing multiple stab wounds to his chest, heals slowly.

“You’re staying home, right?” Sansa asks, the first night he gains consciousness.

“Aye,” Jon agrees with a tired smile.

A letter, dictated by Jon and written by Sansa, brings a bumbling but sweet young maester called Sam along with his wife and little one.

Tormund and Ygritte are constantly looking north, but never make a move to leave.

“You can stay, you know,” Sansa tells them.

Ygritte eyes her suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Sandor scoffs.

Ygritte glares at him.

Sandor rolls his eyes. “My wife is a soft-hearted thing, and you make her cousin happy. When she says you can stay, that’s all she means by it.”

Something in Ygritte’s expression softens.

Tormund rolls his eyes and throws an arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “There aren’t enough of us kissed by fire this far north,” he waggles his eyebrows, “so we oughta stick together.”

Sansa laughs and wraps an arm around the Wildling's waist. “Yes, we should.”

* * *

Sansa finds Brienne on a trip to the coast to arrange trade routes north. Sansa doesn’t hear the argument that starts the fight, but the tall blonde and Sandor nearly kill each other before Sansa steps in and hauls Sandor away by the ear while drawing her pistol on Brienne. The woman is the fastest gun hand Sansa has ever met, and readily agrees to come to Winterfell when she finds out Sansa is Catelyn’s daughter.

“Your mother sought to bring me to Winterfell, once upon a time, to teach and protect you and your sister. I will honor that now,” Brienne vows.

Sansa smiles sharply. “We can take care of ourselves, but you are welcome nonetheless.”

Tormund follows her around for months after she arrives. “If the big woman had my babies, ya think they’d be blonde or fire-kissed?”

“I think she’d sooner eviscerate you than let you put your cock anywhere near her,” Sandor sneers.

“Yeah,” Tormund sighs wistfully.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

* * *

Arya finds Podrick, the son of an East Coast banker who dreamt of adventure on the frontier, in a brothel in Colorado.

Sansa’s eyes nearly bug out of her head the day he trails in behind Arya and Gendry, not quite unlike a puppy. “Why was he in a brothel?!”

Gendry blushes and beats a hasty retreat to his forge.

Arya snickers. “Boy’s got a magic cock.”

Sansa chokes on her coffee, spewing it halfway across the table. “What?”

Arya smirks. “Seriously. He comes out west to cowboy, ya know? Some rancher takes pity on the poor greenhorn and takes him on. First time they take him to a brothel, the whores don’t let him pay. Second time they take him to a brothel, the whores don’t let him leave.”

Sansa blinks. “They were… they what? Kidnapped him?”

Arya shrugs. “He seemed happy enough, but he still wanted adventure.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “So you handed him a gun and promised him the wilds of the North.”

* * *

The last addition to the permanent residents of Winterfell is greeted by a dagger flung into his shoulder and a pistol held steadily at his head.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sansa snarls, eyes flashing gold in the sunlight.

Jaime Lannister, a little less golden and shining than Sansa’s memories of him, grimaces. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t simply shoot first.”

Sansa pulls the hammer back on her revolver and raises a brow.

Jaime winces. “Right, what was the question?”

“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here?!”

Jaime nods. “Right. Heard my wench was here.”

Sansa’s finger shifts from the guard to the trigger.

“Jaime?” Brienne’s voice sounds from over her shoulder.

“You know him?” Sansa asks tightly.

“I- ye- h- um…”

Sansa glances over her shoulder and finds Brienne more flustered than she’s ever seen her before. “Brienne? Do you trust him?”

Brienne takes a deep breath, seemingly unable to look away from Jaime. “With my life,” she admits quietly.

Sansa releases the hammer and holsters her gun.

Jaime makes an indignant noise. “She claims me and suddenly I’m not a threat?”

Sansa shrugs. “Not to me.”

Jaime frowns.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “If Brienne trusts you, you cannot be the same man you were when I knew you.”

“He left,” Brienne whispers, barely audible. “He left me.”

Sansa draws her pistol again in a flash.

Jaime holds his hands up, placating. “I had to Brienne. She wouldn’t have… they wouldn’t have stopped.”

Brienne’s eyes snap back to Jaime.

Jaime shrugs, then winces when it jostles the blade in his shoulder. “It’s done. They’re gone.”

Brienne blinks. “Jaime, you…”

Jaime shrugs. “I sent Myrcella and Tommen away with Tyrion.”

Sansa finally catches up with the conversation and her jaw crops briefly before she collects herself. She tilts her gaze toward Jaime. “Are you saying the lions are gone?”

Jaime inclines his head. “As much as the wolves are gone,” he says, tone too knowing.

Sansa frowns.

Jaime smirks. “I left Joffrey. But unlike the Stark heir, my nephew doesn’t carry the gifts of his line, and he’s not smart enough to rebuild his house. He will be his own doom.”

Sansa scoffs. “Be straight with me Lannister. Tywin and Cersei.”

Jaime exhales shakily. “Gone. A rather unfortunate incident involving a fire from the electric lines Cersei insisted on.”

“Jaime!” Brienne sounds admonishing.

Jaime meets her eyes without flinching. “I won’t apologize. We’re safe now. You’re safe now. Send me right back away if you want, but I won’t apologize for it.”

“I didn’t send you away in the first place!” Brienne bursts, the closest Sansa has ever heard the older woman come to yelling. “You left,” her voice breaks at the end.

Jaime takes a step forward.

Sansa stalls him with a warning glare and the click of her hammer.

“It was the only way I knew, Bri,” Jaime says, the plea clear in his tone.

Sansa glances over her shoulder and sees something in Brienne’s expression break. She shifts her finger to her trigger. “Brienne?”

Brienne shakes her head. “He’s my husband,” she whispers so low Sansa barely catches it.

Sansa’s gaze flies back to Jaime. “You left to protect her?”

“Nothing else would have pulled me from her side,” Jaime swears, more earnest than Sansa has ever seen him.

She sighs and releases the hammer on her revolver, once again returning it to its holster, then jerks her head over her shoulder toward Brienne.

Jaime surges forward, clearly needing no further invitation. Sansa watches closely as he crowds into Briene’s space, lifting his good arm until he can cup her cheek.

Brienne remains frozen.

Jaime leans his forehead against Brienne’s. “Gods, I missed you, wench.”

Brienne chokes on a sob and buries her face against Jaime’s uninjured soldier.

Jaime slides his hand around, gently cradling the back of her head and shushing her softly. “I’ve got you. I’m here, and I swear to the gods I’m never leaving again.”

Brienne shuffles closer and Jaime barely contains his flinch backward.

Sansa rolls her eyes and decides to take mercy on him. “Alright, Lannister, let’s get you to Sam.”

Jaime raises a brow at her.

“Maester,” Sansa explains.

Brienne pulls back with a horrified expression. “You’re hurt! Gods, see, this is why I told you not to marry me. A proper lady would care for her husba-”

Jaime tugs her down with the hand still cupped behind her head and silences her with a kiss. “I don’t want a proper lady, wench. I’ve only ever wanted you, Mrs. Lannister.”

Brienne scoffs. “Unless my memory is failing me severely, you took my name, Mr. Tarth.”

Jaime shrugs, then winces. “Fuck, I’ve gotta stop doing that. Your name was better than mine.”

“Maester,” Sansa commands, tone brooking no argument.

“Who the fuck is he?” Tormund demands, eyes on Jaime leaning heavily into Brienne’s side.

Sansa reaches up and pats his cheek, mockingly consoling. “Brienne’s husband.”

Tormund’s face falls into an almost comically pained expression, quickly replaced by a mad grin and an insane glint in his eyes. “I’ll fight you for her!”

“You’ll lose!” Brienne calls without so much as a glance at the Wildling.

“Take the loss with dignity,” Sansa recommends.

Ygritte snorts. “You say that as if he ever had any in the first place.”

Arya comes barrelling into the courtyard, sword drawn. “Was that Jaime fucking Lannister?”

Sandor catches her by the collar and hauls her back. “Aye. Leave him be before we all have to listen to one of your sister’s lectures.

Arya spins on her sister. “Why the fuck did you even let him through the gates?! You should’ve shot him on sight!”

Sansa shrugs. “I put a dagger in his shoulder. It took balls to even show up here. I was curious.”

“Curiosity satisfied, obviously. And he’s still alive because… why, exactly?”

Sansa shrugs. “Two reasons. One, he killed Tywin and Cersei, and essentially left Joffrey for dead.”

“Huh,” Arya huffs, expression giving away a begrudging respect. “And two?”

Sansa smiles softly. “Brienne loves him.”

* * *

Sansa leans back into Sandor’s warmth when he finds her on the northernmost wall of the keep, observing the activity of the courtyard. Arya and Brienne are in some kind of sparring contest against Gendry and Jaime that Sansa doesn't quite understand the rules of. Tormund, Ygritte, and Gilly are playing a game with little Sam while Jon and Sam watch them with soppy expressions. Sansa still hasn’t figured out if Jon’s expression is for Tormund, Ygritte, or both. Podrick is near the stables chatting with a prettily blushing girl up from Wintertown.

“Surveying your kingdom?” He asks softly.

Sansa giggles. “Hardly a kingdom.”

Sandor chuckles. “What would you call it then?”

“A home.”


End file.
